Johnny Got His Gun
by TheMaddnessOfDr.Strangelove
Summary: In a leap worse than death, Sam finds himself in the 'shoes' of maimed war veteran, Joe Bonham. Crossover with the classic novel by Dalton Trumbo.
1. Chapter 1

_The following story was made out of the utmost respect for Dalton Trumbo's classic novel, JOHNNY GOT HIS GUN, and though the events chronicled here mirror that of the aforementioned work, this piece is an original story that follows up on the book's main protagonist through the lens of the science fiction television series, QUANTUM LEAP, as a way of reconciling this author's feelings about the horrors of war/Trumbo's iconic book and to perhaps leave behind a chance for hope for Joe Bonham and ourselves._

The Dead

i

Prick of the stump, the old cold metal, and on lavender waves goes the corpse into the burning boat.

"Why does Tom have to go to Vietnam?" This was a kind of question the sixteen-year-old Sam Beckett rarely asked. Not that he had outgrown the raw curiosity, not at all. He'd never had it, not like the other children. From a very early age it was quite clear to John and Mrs. Beckett that their baby boy's inquisitiveness, even from the moment he first laid his newborn eyes upon them, was already mired by a genius' apathy, whose gaze darted through all of life's commonplace mysteries that plagued lesser minds for their whole lives in a second. Why is the sky blue? What makes that car work? Make no mistake; the boy was interested in things, just big things. Things that, without a shred of understanding, only seemed to frighten the wholesome and the tidy, the so-called centrist masses and their strong coffee and sobering, hard chinned pace. Big things got in the way of what you knew to be true. Big things lead to bigger questions. Is there a God? Why do young men have to go to war? Why doesn't the man with suit and the button send his son instead of making a speech about sending mine? Luckily, old John Beckett and Mrs. Beckett had done it before, raised a child that is. They knew how to handle it. Sam had an older brother. Tom. Athletic, kind, a little high strung. He liked all the regular things. Like basketball, girls, cars, all that jazz. His country. Tom loved his country very much. The Beckett's loved their country too. Sam liked basketball. He was damn good at it. He was good at a lot of things. Piano, calculus, chess. He was good at thinking. Maybe too much for his own good, for when Sam asked his father, why Tom, the kid who liked jazz and girls and cars, had to go and maybe not like jazz and girls and cars anymore because he'd be you know, dead, and well you don't like anything but worms and dirt when your dead, John Beckett broke out in a sweat across his brow, despite the morning chill sweeping across the fields, signaling the coming of a extra cold winter.

At first, he wanted to call to his wife. All the way back at the house. Drag her out there and make her tell him. What a question?! What on earth could have possessed him to ask that? Didn't he already know why? Didn't everybody. Boy, for a genius prodigy, you sure don't know too much, the aging dairy farmer wanted to say, and maybe Sam heard him. Or heard his own voice. It sounded so...juvenile. Naïve. Like when the three-year-old child asks why when he lets go of his rattle it falls to the floor. It was a child's question! But did not old Sir Isaac ask the same? Smart, inquisitive, Sir Isaac. Damn eggheads don't know much.

John Beckett kept still a moment, though it hurt his back, stooped with the axe over his fresh kill. Wood for fire, for the long winter ahead. He stared out toward the main road where, if you went long enough, you hit the town.

"Because," John finally said sternly, "he's fighting for democracy."

"But, he can already vote."

John shot him a look. No. The boy's normal foray into deep meaning questions and odd musings were missing and this, simpleness was genuine. And seeking an answer. "I know you'll miss him. I'll miss him. But, he's gotta help those people. Keep the commies out."

"Can't they fight to vote?'

"They are."

"Then why are they making Tom go?"

"He's a soldier."

"What if he dies?"

"For democracy, any man would give his son."

He was coming back. Awake again? Or still dreaming. The first thing he remembered noticing, as solid reality reformed around his body again, was that the silence was deafening. That's what made it real. Even before his memory found firm footing again, a now somewhat welcomed tradition of his travels, the thickness and definiteness of the quiet overpowered his usually feverish quest to fill in the Swiss cheesed gaps of his past and his present, the ever-changing likes of which had made the difficulty to recall it a part of his life. _Sam Beckett._ The fact plopped into his head faster than usual. _Quantum physicist. Trapped in time._ The voice in his head sounded rote and lazy. It struck him. Never before had he sounded so tired, uninterested…like he'd said it a million times. His brain remembered. The leaps. Not in any vivid detail, but it had registered the length of time. That was new. He had grown accustomed to the clean slate feeling.

The clearance of his sight was taking longer than usual as well. Normally, it was like a blurry photograph coming into focus. He always imagined a gloved hand around an old movie camera for some reason, turning a crank round and round until everything became lucid. This time, the only hints were forms of light that burned into his nothingness in…and out…in…and out. Each time, his equilibrium swayed like on that of a boat atop rocky waters. His stomach was churning, and then ice melted in his veins and put it to rest. The colors flared and swirled through his mind's eye. At first, very faintly. He recalled as a child when he'd stay up way past his bedtime and peering over the covers into the dark, he would see specks of light waft and soar all around him, products of his tiring imagination. Suddenly, the shapes and colors exploded. A jolt went through his body. His muscles tensed and strained, but they couldn't hold on.

Prick of the stump, the old cold metal, and on lavender waves goes the corpse into the burning boat.

They melted down, went numb. He was numb. Soggy. Drowsy. The colors. Blue. Red. Yellow. Their bursts scattered like fire. Bombs lighting up a night sky.

And then, sound burst with them. Pow. Pow. Like drum beats and blaring horns. Pow. Pow pow. Not sound. Vibrations. Shuddering through him. Music. Big. Loud. It came over the call of the train's whistle. Singing. _Over there…over there…send the word…_

He stepped into the room to get away from the wash of sounds. It was just off the station somewhere. The fleck of cards tickled his ears. Might be a tavern or not. He smelled no alcohol on the air. He smelled nothing. There were four or five of them at a table, waiting for the train. The one with red hair looked at him. "You play blackjack?"

"Sure," Sam heard himself say. He sat down.

A boy came up to the table. Couldn't have been a day over sixteen. Sam knew him. He squinted his eyes and tried to capitalize on the twinge of recognition. He'd come down from Elkridge. They'd let him out of jail if he joined the army. Only sixteen. Had big hips for a boy. The thought made Sam smile, and then feel shame. "Make sure your bet's out before the first card," the man with red hair said. Sam laid down a quarter. The cards were dealt. There was another. He looked like a Swede. "Christ, I wish we had a drink." The boy form Elkridge said, "Then why don't you drink it." There was a glass of whisky on the table. Everyone had a whisky.

"Hit me," Sam declared, "but not too hard."

"What are you doing here?" The man with red hair looked at him funny. "You ain't gonna die."

"What?" Sam asked.

"I get killed on the twenty-seventh." The man looked at his watch. "I have to say goodbye to my wife and kid. I'm the sergeant, you see." He was quite proud. "I go over first. I die first. What are you doing here?"

Before Sam could answer, the live music in the background suddenly changed. People began to sing louder.

_Oh say can you see…_

Interrupted. Everyone stood. Hat in hand.

…_by the dawn's early light._

It felt like morning. He was awake. He opened his eyes. No, he didn't. But he was awake. He couldn't see. The same blackness from before. No colors anymore. He could feel his eyelids. They were closed. Why couldn't he just open them? The dreams had been the same over and over. Trapped in the void, Sam had been fading in and out of consciousness for days, weeks, months, trying to steady his thoughts long enough to separate himself from the mind merge with the leapee. He had leaped into an injured man. That was certain. One who had to be drugged. A lot. When he first 'arrived,' he struggled and jerked, but in vein. His arms felt like weights were on them, his whole body, every time he tried to move. And this only for seconds at a time before dazing into the dreams that were hybrids of his own experiences mixed with that of his charge. Now, after awaking again, finally able to pull his fragments together, it seemed Sam had found a respite.

He took it slowly. Any excursion could jeopardize this injured leapee.

He felt other things. Something was covering his face. It felt like bandages. His senses cleared. The ones he had. He felt the bed underneath him and bandages on his face. He exhaled hard. No. He didn't. He couldn't. He was breathing, but he couldn't stop it. He tried to sit up. He couldn't. He raised his hand and touched the bandage on his face. He imagined it, but the real feeling never came. _Lift your arm._ He didn't have one. His breath quickened, but he didn't feel it pumping, hot and panicked, through his mouth. Nor through his nose. He couldn't feel them. He ran his tongue along his palette. He had neither. He kicked his legs. They weren't there. He rocked himself wildly. He could feel the bedsprings creak and strain. He didn't hear the creak. He felt it. He was deaf. He was nothing.

He was nothing. But, he was thinking. His mind was somewhere, but he, he was nowhere.

A leap into limbo? No. His mind was not among the stars. He could feel himself. His body. Mind and body were one. He was maimed. He froze, shaking up and down to a sputtering halt, his mind a fire with no way to express it except a singular thought that swarmed every inch of what was left of his body and soul. _Oh boy._


	2. Chapter 2

ii

"How will you get back?" Donna's voice was already weakening. She knew he was going back. No matter what she said, no matter how much she begged, and worst of all, no matter how much she loved him. He would _always_ go back. It's where he belonged. Being dislodged from the time stream had made him incapable of doing anything else, as a warrior emerges from the jungle. Life in the tribe no longer settles the boil of the blood.

Tina and Gooshie knew to stay out of it.

"Use the retrieval program." Sam's chest puffed proudly.

"It didn't work the last time you leaped."

"I've updated it," Sam offered quietly as he took a few steps back to her, away from the acceleration chamber, and his destiny.

"Ziggy!" Donna turned from him, knowing that the only rationale in this mess wouldn't be human. "What are the odds of retrieving Doctor Beckett?"

The cobalt disco ball hovered ominously. It—she—didn't miss a beat. "Nine point six percent." Odds to die by.

Sam sighed and shook his head, as time ran out. He didn't care what the odds were. He couldn't just let Al die in his place. Al had never signed up for the risk. He hadn't been the one who, against the advice of everyone on the project, stepped into that chamber the first time. Al was dead unless Sam stopped it. Why didn't Donna care? How could she be so selfish?! He rushed to his wife. "Donna," he whispered as he took her by the arm and turned her to meet him eye to eye. God they were so beautiful. The touch of her skin was smooth, soft. Damn fool to leave that behind. Damn fool. All for some lech naval officer past his prime. "I can't let him die."

"And I can't let you go!" Her voice was breaking, sharp. "Not when you've just come back to me…"

"How many times has Al saved my life?" The ever-calculating Doctor Beckett retorted sternly.

"Twenty three," Ziggy cut in, powerless to care for whom she scored points. She could not feel pity, urgency, or remorse. Her speeds were monotone apathy and giddy, schizophrenic ego. The latter sent chills up her handlers' spine every so often.

Donna turned to Ziggy's faceless gaze. "I don't care!"

_Damn you! _Sam's feverish thoughts in the present cursed her, like an angry audience member, alone in the theatre, who can't help but talk to the screen. _Damn you, Donna! Why don't you understand?! You never lost anything in your life! I lost everything. My brother, my father! You didn't loose your dad! I made sure of that! _

_Al is all I have left. Let him come home, damn it! Let him come home!_

"It isn't fair, Sam. It just isn't fair!"

The Sam of the past grabbed her and held her nose to nose. "I know."

"Don't leave me again, I don't think I could stand it if you left me again."

She pulled away and turned her back…again. Turned her back. The countdown began.

And the Sam of the past waited, and stood there. _Go, damn you. Move! Don't wait for her to make up her mind! Go!_

"Go," she said finally.

He cupped her cheeks in his hands. "I'll be back. I swear to God I'll be back!" He kissed her.

"Oh, Joe, I'm so scared. Kiss me again."

_Oh, no. Not again._

"We shouldn't. Turn the lights out. Your old man will be sore."

"Don't go, Joe."

"When you're drafted you got to go."

In the dark in the bed, Sam could feel Donna—Kareen's—stare. He couldn't handle it. It made him want to cry. He put his arm around her and pulled her close. Her forehead brushed against his chin. Both of her arms went around his neck. She smelled like soap. Clean. In her arms and her in his. Both of them. Sorrow ripped at Sam's rib cage. He screamed with no voice. _Both of his arms!_ Who was this man? Joe? Tom? What was the difference? Maybe Tom hadn't died. Maybe he was lying in a bed with no arms and legs and no face. Did he have a girl? He didn't remember.

_Tom didn't die. I changed it! I traded a life for it._

"I don't want you to go," Kareen pleaded.

"I don't want to."

"I love you."

"Sam!"

He turned and embraced her again. Another kiss. "I love you," Donna said. And again he ran. Into the chamber. Into the water. Into the trenches.

Time had no meaning anymore, not that its grasp on the man had ever been that strong as his tenure as a leaper anyway. He was sleeping perpetually, fending off memories of his life and home that were slowly being blended into the valley of recollections left behind by the leapee.

He kept telling himself it wasn't real. It was just a dream. Just like the first leap. He awoke, dazed, sick, confused, his memory split into a million different pieces. _God_, he kept thinking, _I'm ready to wake up now_. All right, so he didn't believe in God, exactly. Not in the traditional sense, but what else does one call an unseen force, one that had taken control of his project and by proxy, his entire life. God? Fate? Time? Whatever or whoever it was, it's or his cruel sense of humor had taken to new heights in the macabre. It was a confusion like no other. Not being able to place a memory was one thing, but to be all there mentally inside a worthless body and faced with the indistinct problem of defining reality was like trying to solve a riddle inside an enigma. One that, in between dope sessions, only served to fry his brain, and make his attempts at concreting himself about as effective as a dog chasing it's tail with no legs or face or hearing to find it.

The only assurance he got was the patch of exposed skin on his forehead above where the mask covering the hole began. He'd felt the sun beating down him many times now. Beads of sweat would rise up. Sometimes, if he were left conscious long enough, he'd follow the sun's slow, steady path down his covers. It had been paramount in Sam's mastering of time. Despite the knowledge that days were passing, he remained calm. That was another thing keeping him sharp. He knew an opportunity would present itself. His unknown mission was still there. _Put right what once went wrong._ The phrase was in his head all day long, like a little man in his head pulling a Jack Torrance. Jack Torrance; trapped in the prison of his mind surrounded by ghosts.

Speaking of, another window into some semblance of reality was the occasional visits he got from what Sam had assumed, rightfully so, was a nurse. At first, he relished the brief comfort of her presence. He would taut his torso when he felt the light vibrations of her footsteps. She would pull back his covers and put her hand on his chest, tiny and smooth like soap and sheets… and he would answer by gently rocking his head. Sometimes she would bathe him with a cloth. Needling at him was a desire to communicate. He wanted to grab her, shake her, and make her tell him how to get out of there. Hard to do without hands or ears or a jaw. Then of course, her steps would be followed by heavier ones that inevitably lead to a cold prick in his stump, and the wash of colors and mixed and mashed dreams. His doctor. Eight steps all together in and out.

Today, he had been alone for a while. Without drugs, without interference. He used these brief times to figure on things, but it was little more than twiddling his thumbs, you know, if he had them. He'd begun to build up an aversion because, if he'd start in thinking really heavy, the static and pulses of pain in his head would start. They came and went pretty regular, each time with increasing pressure. They'd actually begun to form a pattern. The same every time, over and over. Before he knew it, it started , pump, pulse, pump, pulse, pulse, pump, pump, pump, pump, pulse, pulse, pulse, pulse, pump, pump, pump, pump, pulse, pulse, pulse.

Over and over.

Pump, pump, pulse, pump, pulse, pulse, pump, pump, pump, pump, pulse, pulse, pulse, pulse, pump, pump, pump, pump, pulse, pulse, pulse.

Pump, pump, pulse, pump, pulse, pulse, pump, pump, pump, pump, pulse, pulse, pulse, pulse, pump, pump, pump, pump, pulse, pulse, pulse.

Pump, pump, pulse, pump, pulse, pulse, pump, pump, pump, pump, pulse, pulse, pulse, pulse, pump, pump, pump, pump, pulse, pulse, pulse.

All day long. And as crazy as it might be, he felt drawn to it, like it was his only life preserver. Like the one enigma he had to crack, but every time he got close to the answer…

He felt the bed springs shudder. The door to his room opened. Those heavy vibrations started. One, two, three, four. _No, No, No! I can figure this out!_ Something cold swabbed his arm. _Damn you, I can get this right! Don't put me back! I can't go back! I'm not this Joe! I can't help him! I can't! Leap me out of this! Leap me out!_

Five, six, seven, eight.

Prick of the stump, the old cold metal, and on lavender waves goes the corpse into the burning boat.


	3. Chapter 3

iii

The banner ended. Sam reasserted himself at the table and was instantly aware of the slicker finish beneath his fingertips. His other players had vanished from the table, but he still sensed their presence, like a macabre audience beyond the glow of the spotlight. It was so eerie. So real. He could feel the Swede and the boy from Elkridge study this alien in their midst. He was the freak here, a refugee from a sideshow. It was all well and good when you went to see them, but boy howdy, when the Gypsies and pinheads came to see you, they might as well have brought the devil with them. It was like being in a shoot out. Well, he'd know, he'd been in one. Everyone had the bone yard stare, and was looking to draw before the sweat made the handle too slippery. Just when he knew the lead was about to start flying, someone finally broke the silence, with a calm reprimand.

The half-eaten dog jumped up onto the table, scurrying the cards every which way. All the suits rained to the floor. One of hearts, two of spades, it was all the same now. Sam held out his hand to catch them, but they fluttered out of his grasp. The kings and queens stayed behind, tucked safely under the half-eaten dog's chewed paw. "Go on now," the twisted little mutt said, "shoo, boy, shoo." It had a partial face. There was hole where one cheek had been, that ran the length of its snout, cutting it in half and allowing Sam to see cobwebby looking gunk and dark matter all the way inside the skull. One eye triumphantly mocked him, as did its patronizing voice. "You shouldn't be here. Get along, little doggy."

Sam stood away from the table unable to muster so much as a grimace.

"Woah now," the half-eaten dog warned, "don't get uppity with me. Down boy, down."

"I can't," Sam replied avoidably.

"Get on home, boy." The voice at the other end of the receiver knew, as the family doctor, he couldn't order him, but that couldn't remove the gravel from the back of the old man's throat. Too much of his athletic days in him. His pep talks outdid his coaches, and any drill sergeant worth his weight. _Give 'em hell. Kill the bastards. Don't let those dirty pansies get one more yard!_ Mom didn't make the call. She was so ill with grief.

Sam's lips were pressed white against the phone's mouth peace. He wasn't going home. He couldn't face his pop like this. There wasn't any way, not without embarrassing his mother. He didn't come back. He made the excuse that school wouldn't give him the time. His mother would understand. Somehow...she would.

Could have at least sent a telegram, pansy. Too personal? How about Morse code? You know that too don't you? Like you know every damn thing just like a pansy.

If he couldn't take care of John Beckett while he was alive, what was the use of taking care of him now? Only the funeral director could do that, that and put an extra coat of wax on John's face so Sam could recognize him. It had been so long since he had seen the man. Three years at MIT. Three years of I'm sorry I can't make it back for thanksgiving or Christmas or even to say hello, not even when they carted Tom back from Vietnam a piece at a time. Little yelp couldn't take it. Seen tougher that could. There was a flag draped over every box. Arm here, leg there. Ear here, I don't know what that used to be there. Special delivery! One patriot! Oh, you'll love this chunk. It's the piece every girl will want to put on a necklace and let dangle over their cleavage. Catch my drift, eh John? They love a man like Tom.

Those three years put more age on John Beckett than all the years prior. He was sick in the heart long before his death. Tom had killed him in the end. Pathetic, Sam would often surmise while regarding this notion. To think that a dead man could muster that. It's just a chard corpse laying in a dried up puddle next to some napalmed shrubbery. The foliage was looking to make a comeback on the brand new fertilizer.

Yes, blame the dead for the sins of the living. Sam couldn't go back there for the funeral. Killers don't get to see their victims laid to rest in hallowed earth. An innocent man had been convicted and sent to ride old sparky, not in a courtroom or an immaculate executioner's block. No, in a damned stink hole in some jungle in the name of some preacher on a ballot and a sniveling little boy from Elkridge who had the audacity to dream and ask why? Why does Tom have to go to Vietnam? Why don't you shut up and _suck_ it up. Your thinking goes no further than your upper lip. Give up your selfish dream up there in Boston and get your ass home to Elkridge and take care of the farm you abandoned when you knew Tom would die. You always knew things before anybody else. Damned thinker.

"Go look at that waxy SOB and tell him all about how you ran up there to MIT just so you could get closer to Canada, you friggin panty waist hippie." The dog was barking at him now. The foam that dripped from its jowls was little more than a mummy's powdery leavings. "What exactly have _you_ done for your country lately, Sam?" And they were all there. The red head and the boy from Elkridge stood around the table. They gathered around him. An arm missing here and a face missing there. Sam's stance wavered, but his fingertips remained planted on the slickery surface like Spider-Man on a wall.

"You aint done squat!" The half-eaten dog's voice had a feminine mockery about it, like a sultry woman trying to comically mimic a much more masculine specimen, and with a somewhat merry, if also noncommittal, inflection. It was Ziggy's voice. "So just go on home! You couldn't handle all this! All this Freedom! GO HOME, PANSY."

The half-eaten men moved away from their canine counterpart and leaned next to Sam. The Swede was closest. "You ain't Joe?"

Sam tried to look him in the eyes, but found himself hypnotized by the hole where his nose used to be.

"We liked Joe," he continued. "Joe knew what it was like without having to bare _his_ company." A bony finger regarded the half-eaten dog accusatorily.

His trance broken inexplicably, Sam looked down at the slick sheen that had replaced the dry rot wood upon his reentry into this nightmare. He liked the laminated texture of a photograph. He was always one to rub the edges in between his fingers just for the squishy sound it made like your shoes skidding across a fresh tile floor. He peered closely into the subject inside the frame. A face worthy of a Pulitzer Prize. A whole face. Then he looked back at the half-eaten dog and smiled. With a cocked eyebrow he craned his head toward the Swede and put an arm around him. His lips parted near a unfinished lobe and he whispered, as a lover whispers syrupy gush. When he was done, the Swede smiled and pulled away from Sam's grasp. He offered him a quick salute and then the aura of blue light Sam had only seen once, as it encircled Stawpah, surrounded the Swede, and he was gone.

The half eaten dog barked wildly and tried to lung for Sam's throat, but its decomposed limbs crumbled, binding table with muck. The eye remained, afire and commanding Sam to halt. Beckett nodded at the boy from Elkridge who, despite having no face, acknowledged this with a jawless nod and took the Swede's place. Again Sam put an around his shoulder and whispered and again a man leaped. Sam could hear the half eaten dog's shrill cries of agony. A line formed all the way out into the train station. Men were jumping off of the locomotive, some with barely enough body to make the trip, looking like dancing puppets on string as they lap skip tripped up to Doctor Beckett like something out of a Romero film. Each time, Sam whispered into whatever passed for an ear, and sent them on their way.

When the line whittled down to nothing, what had been the half-eaten dog's eye looked like a bad try at a sunny side egg, atop laundry lint in the back of an abandoned cupboard. Sam's parting words to it were, "Tom didn't die. I traded it him out..."

Sam studied the photograph again. Making eye contact transported Sam through space and time as quickly as leaping. It was 1970. Vietnam. The picture belonged to an ambitious photojournalist. A brilliant but fatally impetuous woman, whom had died in Tom's place. And yet, that hadn't been the only life he had sacrificed for his brother. For himself. The bar was smokey and fluorescent. Nearby, men carried on like all men who might be marked for death do, with nervous energy that put waver in even the most inebriated yowl of approval. He looked up. The snapshot's subject stood to one side, much older, a cigar in one hand, the gummy bear in the other. His Naval class As looked pressed and white as snow. "I was free," Admiral Calavicci said, then tapped his forehead with his free index finger, cigar ash flicking in unison. "Up here…I was always free." Friendship meant sacrifice. Friendship meant love. He faded away slowly, the final proof of the apparition the blinking lights on the handlink. Handlink. The moment it dawned on him, Sam found himself back in the hideous now. His injured body never felt more real or alive. And yes, that ominous pulsing in his head was there, only now it was a life preserver. He 'listened' carefully to the message. The code.

S T A R B R I G H T. T O. E A R T H.

S T A R B R I G H T. T O. E A R T H.

S T A R B R I G H T. T O. E A R T H.

Using his only appendage, that being his head, he lifted up. It took several tries. The muscles in the neck had long atrophied. Still he managed a hesitant message beat, the headboard his postman.

T H I S. I S. E A R T H.

S A M. H E R E.


End file.
